In Which Silver Returns Home
by AnonOrange-FFA
Summary: Nothing has really changed in the five years since Team Rocket disbanded for good.


Silver's stomach churned. His legs felt as if they were trapped in a Spinarak web, unable to move despite the voice in his head screaming at him to do just that. He felt the nausea coming in waves and his cheeks flushed; he made it to the sink just in time, his retches echoing through the now silent kitchen. He took a shaky breath and reached for the tap, the cool water washing away evidence of his weakness. He scooped a fistful of the liquid into his mouth and spat it back out, doing his best to wash away the bitter taste. Finally, he wiped his chin with the back of his hand and slowly turned around, his stomach only slightly more settled than it had been.

"Welcome home, kid."

"Fuck you," he swore, his eyes lingering on the scene long enough for the nausea to start growing again.

"Watch your language, Grunt," Proton hissed from his place at the kitchen table. The Aipom – Silver was sure it had been an Aipom – was long since dead, disfigured, half of its limbs detached. The Executive sat facing the sink, his feet resting on a second chair as he watched the boy carefully.

"Where's Petrel?"

It was a question he regretted the moment it was out of his mouth. His mind filled with images of the man lying in a pool of his own blood, covered in the frenzied stab wounds only a madman could produce the heat of the moment. He closed his eyes, but the action only put his brain into overdrive and made his stomach turn again. Petrel would have been lucky for Proton to dispose of him so quickly. It had more likely been drawn out over a few days, minor injury here, broken bone there, until his body had finally given up.

In a rare moment, Silver's expression had obviously betrayed his thoughts; Proton's reply began with a laugh.

"You think I killed him," the Executive grinned mischievously. He swung his feet down from the chair and sat up properly; Silver could see his left leg bouncing up and down under the table. A restless Proton was a dangerous man.

"Where is he then?"

"I don't know, he's been gone for three days."

"And that?" Silver asked, waving a hand at the dismembered Pokémon.

"About the same time," Proton shrugged. "What do you want, anyway?"

"Tea would be nice."

"Fuck off," Proton grinned. His reply wasn't sharp at all, more playful than anything else. Silver's comment had been intended to stir him up but he was the adult; the boy wasn't going to win this round. He watched as the teenager lifted himself up onto the kitchen counter, sitting with his fingers tightly grasping the edge; his eyes were looking everywhere except the table. "They're not here, either."

"You fuck off," Silver shot back. He was staring at a magnet on the fridge, one that was a gaudy pink, meant to resemble a Moon Stone. It was old, they'd had it since Saffron.

"They're not coming back, kid," Proton said – this time, he sounded exhausted. His leg had stopped moving. "Petrel will. He always does. The others? Haven't heard from them in almost five years."

"Can I stay here?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Fine," Proton sighed. "Help me clean this shit up."

"No fucking way," Silver snapped; his knuckles were white.

"Okay, let me rephrase that. Get a garbage bag like a good little boy, and I won't slit your throat while you sleep."

"Fuck." Silver swore, under his breath, then slipped down from the bench. He crouched down in front of the cupboard under the sink to look for the bags, pausing a moment to catch his breath. He knew what came next; Proton had first forced him to help with the clean-up of one of his so called projects when he was only four years old.

He tried telling himself it wasn't worth it, that he had other places to go. He had friends to stay with, he knew people that would let him stay for a few days. All he'd wanted to do was go home for Christmas.

He picked up one of the heavy duty garbage bags and stepped around the table, avoiding the sticky but almost dry pools of blood on the floor. He held the bag open when Proton stood, allowing the former Executive to start tossing the Aipom in, piece by piece.

"Here," Proton said, gesturing for Silver to hand him the bag when he was done; the boy did, as quickly as he could.

"I'm going for a shower," Silver muttered. He turned to leave the kitchen.

"Hey Grunt,"

"Yeah?"

"Look at me,"

"Yeah, _Executive_?" Silver said, staring right into Proton's eyes, playing along with his insistence that nothing had changed.

"They'd like that you turned out pretty normal, considering the circumstances."

"Thanks," Silver said, after an awkward pause. Proton gave him what was supposed to be a smile, then left the room with the garbage bag tossed over his shoulder. He stood in the middle of the room feeling a little easier now that the Aipom was gone, but the blood stains on the floor imprinted themselves into his mind. He would dream about them, on and off, for the next three nights while he waited with Proton for Petrel to return. They filled his nightmares as he stayed with them, for months, joining them as they waited for the impossible.


End file.
